I am Legend
by Master Erestor o.t.c.r
Summary: A Mirkwood Elf finds the victim of an Orc attack and has to make a difficult decision


Author's notes:  
  
The character of Laquinde in this story was a little bit inspired by Magic Rat's wonderful "Rabbit". I never saw Elves as weak or fragile, but as strong warriors, capable of fighting and surviving when needed. "I am Legend" is also my answer to all those stories which deal with King Thranduil and his people as if they were the ghetto kids of Middle Earth. You can't expect Elves to sing all day whose life is a never-ceasing struggle to survive.  
  
And yes, the title of the story does have a hidden meaning.  
  
Beta by Magic Rat - the bestest :-) "Mistress! Mistress! I'm unworthy!"  
  
Lord of the Rings and all its characters are owned by Tolkien's estate. The story itself and all original characters are owned by the author. No copyright infringment intended.  
  
* * *  
  
I AM LEGEND  
  
He was tired, he was cold, and soon, Laquinde would lose hope completely.  
  
This winter had been hard. Even the oldest couldn't remember when nature had last decided to treat the Firstborn as harshly as this year. Cold winds blew through Mirkwood, and even if the Woodland Elves didn't suffer from the cold as mortals did, they felt the chill; and when the storm drove snowflakes like tiny needles into their flesh, and frost covered their brows and lashes, they felt the pain.  
  
And it was not only pain - it was also hunger. There were no provisions left, even the royal palace had food rationed. And for ordinary Elves like him, all that was left was digging for roots in the frozen ground of the forest. He had seen Elflings, no older than ten summers, scratching in the ground with their bare hands, ignoring the pain they must have felt, because the hunger was a pain much harder to bear.  
  
It had also been hunger that had driven him out into woods on this grey stormy day, hoping against all odds that there might be a kill to make. He knew that deer and rabbit had left these woods long ago - be it because of the lack of food, or because the animals had sensed the doom that covered Mirkwood like a shroud, he neither knew nor cared. All that occupied his mind right now was how to provide nutrition, for Laquinde was starving.  
  
He was young - only a couple of decades past his majority. He was too young to remember how his home had been back in the days when sun and laughter had reined in the deep greens and gold of Greenwood. He didn't regret it - no, in fact he thought this to be a blessing - for how could he have faced the daily struggle in this place that hope had forsaken if he'd been aware of what he had lost?  
  
Laquinde was tall, even for his race, and much too thin - like all of his kin. Dark hair, above his ears braided in the manner that was common among hunters (for he was a hunter rather than a warrior, though he could stand his ground against an enemy if needed), made him look even paler than he was, and though he was still young at age, the constant frown on his brow gave him the air of an Elf many times his age.  
  
The wind increased, and he sniffed - yes, it smelled like snow, a blizzard would start soon, he had best make his way home. He was frustrated - no prey, which meant no food. Another night's sleep would evade him, for the hunger would keep him awake.  
  
* * *  
  
Just when he prepared to head home, his ears picked up a noise. He perked up, and sniffed again - yes, there was no doubt, the stench was clearly recognizable: Orcs. And there was another smell as well - one which made him quicken his pace and follow the noise and the smell, for there was a fellow Elf in danger, he felt it, and though he was weak, tired and hungry, he would not fail to help one of his kin in need.  
  
But he arrived too late. When Laquinde reached the clearing where the fight had taken place, he could only take in with disgust how the blood of 4 dead Orcs stained the virgin white of the snow covering the ground. There was a black steed prancing nervously amidst the deaths, and Laquinde's heart contracted painfully when he saw the victim of the pack, a male.  
  
He checked the surroundings quickly to make sure the Orcs had indeed left for good, then he hasted towards the still figure, lying in the snow which quickly turned red.  
  
The Elf, who must have fought fiercely and bravely, was still alive, but Laquinde could clearly see the call of Mandos in the dark eyes. Laquinde put his bow aside, and crouched beside the hurt Elf, cradling his head in his lap. He was bleeding heavily from a wound in his chest, staining Laquinde's breeches, and it was obvious that for him no tomorrow would come.  
  
The stranger starred up at the Elf which held him, and tried to speak, but no words would come. There was a last gush of breath, then he was gone.  
  
The Mirkwood Elf cried. He hadn't known the stranger, but a life lost was always something to mourn, for life was precious, and to be slain by Orcs ... he started to sing a lament, as was decent in such a case, alas he whispered more than he sang, for he didn't want to alert the enemy which might as well still be close.  
  
Once he had done as was decent and proper, Laquinde thought about what to do with the body. He couldn't leave it here out in the wild, for the wargs to feast on. He got up, and beckoned the horse, which immediately trotted towards him, looking down at its dead master and now obviously hoping for some guidance.  
  
"There, my friend", Laquinde cooed, and stroked the animal, which seemed to enjoy the caress. It was a wonderful mount - best breed. Like its owner, he thought, for the slain Elf had obviously been of high birth, and even in death, there was a natural authority about him, the now relaxed features regal. His clothes - hunting gear for the travel - were simple, but expensive, and the sword which lay neglected in the snow had been, there was no doubt, wielded by a master.  
  
After a moment of contemplation, Laquinde opened up the saddle bag. There must be some information regarding who the Elf had been, and he wanted to tell the family of their loss. He knew well, ever since his brother hadn't returned from the war, that nothing tormented soul and heart more than not knowing where loved ones were, whether dead, captured or hurt. It was in any case better to know for sure, and have a body to burn on a funeral pyre and mourn over than spend endless years in agony, torn between hope and desperation.  
  
The saddle bag contained clothes, books, some jewellery and two scrolls. Though he felt a little reluctant to snoop around the strangers gear, it couldn't be avoided, considering the circumstances.  
  
Laquinde broke the seal of the two scrolls. He read the content carefully - and after a while, packed them away again, frowning.  
  
He now knew who the slain Elf was, and he also knew what destination he had been heading to. This was more difficult than he had thought. The warrior, though a Firstborn as well, had not been a friend, but an enemy. One of those responsible for the horrible losses and despair his people had to suffer. What had he been doing in Mirkwood? Spying? Laquinde wondered if he maybe shouldn't just leave the corpse here.  
  
No. He couldn't do this. Deep in his heart, Laquinde knew what the right thing to do was, so, after a moment's hesitation, he stripped out of his blood stained clothes, and quickly put on the extra breeches and tunic of the other Elf - he didn't want to be accused of having anything to do with the stranger's death, and he knew very well this was a possibility, given the circumstances.  
  
After he finished, he strapped his quiver to his back, and rummaged through the saddle bags, hoping to find some kind of food.  
  
To his delight, he found three loafs of lembas, and wolfed the waybread down with the greed of the starving - his stomach revolted, unused to the food, but he willed it down, closing his eyes and savouring every bite, the sweet taste exploding in his mouth making him light-headed. He felt the strength returning in his body - yes, now he could bring the fallen warrior (for his braids clearly identified him as such) to the place he had been heading towards.  
  
Laquinde was just about to turn to the task at hand when the arrow came. The young Woodland Elf escaped certain death only by half an inch, thanks to his instincts, but still the arrow left a gash on his cheek. Orcs! They had come back, and he hadn't noticed - an unforgivable negligence!  
  
There was no time now for long musings - if he wanted to survive, he had to act quickly, so he grabbed his bow, mounted the horse and drove his heels into the flanks of the animal, which immediately obeyed and sped off through the wood. He was not happy that he had to leave the fallen warrior behind, but he couldn't risk his life for the dead.  
  
Laquinde heard the disappointed roar of the Orcs, but the noise faded, and after a while, all that was left for his sensitive ears to hear was the heavy breathing of the horse, which seemed to know which path to take without him telling it.  
  
He concentrated on the ride, for he hadn't ridden in a long time. He tried to gather his strength, for at least another two days of travel lay before him.  
  
* * *  
  
The passage had been easier than he had expected. He wasn't attacked, and nobody asked Laquinde who he was or what his business was; unthinkable in Mirkwood, where every traveller was interrogated and mistrust reined. Two sentinels had been waiting for him when he reached the border of Imladris, and now they guided him to the fabled Last Homely House.  
  
Laquinde couldn't believe how beautiful this place was. The trees, the flowers, the birds - everything was colourful, bright and happy, the sun shone down and warmed his skin, the breeze toyfully played with his dark tresses rather than tearing at them cruelly as the winds in Mirkwood did The air was sweet and seemed to be filled with laughter and song. The Elves he passed were smiling, and none of them looked worried where the next meal would come from.  
  
Finally, the small troop arrived in front of the most beautiful house Laquinde had ever seen - white, airy, light, beautiful - nothing like the cave palace his king reigned in, a sovereign who loved his people dearly, but had become hard over the centuries of fruitless battle and sacrifices, and the loss of all who were dear to him.  
  
The ruler of Imladris stood on the top of the stairs leading to the entrance of the Last Homely House, an impressive, regal figure, dressed in formal robes of gold and burgundy, and he gave Laquinde an amicable smile, bowing his head respectfully.  
  
"Well met, my friend. I am Elrond Half-Elven, protector of Imladris."  
  
It all happened within the fraction of a second.  
  
Pictures were racing through his mind; pictures of children digging for roots, the family he had lost, the hunger in the eyes of his people, and finally, the dead Elf in the woods.  
  
Laquinde looked into the slate grey eyes of Elrond Peredhil, saw the kindness and wisdom, hesitated a moment, then bowed his head in return and replied:  
  
"I am Erestor. Erestor of Gondolin."  
  
* * *  
  
The End  
  
© Untalented Elfwriter 2003 


End file.
